


Gold

by korik



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Character Study, Drabble, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Physical Abuse, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Destruction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-11
Updated: 2013-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-23 04:03:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/921764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/korik/pseuds/korik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It becomes an addiction, an excuse. The drink barely mulls his mind which cannot forget the etched detail of the carved up pieces of flesh his father shows the crowd, the heads on the pikes with the upturned eyes, the scream of the crowd in wanton joy at his being named heir."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gold

 

 

 

So quickly the child is gone, hurdling, thrown, cascading and plummeting over the cliff that was the Solidor rite of passage. An adult now, he knows, and he nearly throws up again, his nostrils filling with a smell he cannot get rid of -  ripe, rotting flesh that boils and swells, dripping from the heat of the day. The flies bat and hiss, their shrill hum a constant reminder of what lingers.

It is a week before he tries to kill himself. It is a day after that attempt that he finds an example of stunning golden hair to bury his face into, a moment of trying to own the madness that swirls in his brain, festers in his soul.

It is dark, and the body is warm. He is lonely, and they will do.

It becomes an addiction, an excuse. The drink barely mulls his mind which cannot forget the etched detail of the carved up pieces of flesh his father shows the crowd, the heads on the pikes with the upturned eyes, the scream of the crowd in wanton _joy_ at his being named heir.

I am no prince, he whispers to himself, feeling his stomach roll again. He forces himself to stand, to sweat in the heat, the blaze sucking from him his fear.

He scowls for the first time as he will scowl for years after. Deep. Heavy. Aged, seeing instead only a laughing skeleton for a father, a pathetic lot of beings who follow a blind man. A foolish man. It cuts into his youthful face, and he ages years that day.

They are momentary distractions, those golden flowers that he takes from the gardens of the courts with their tangled vines and sickening weeds. Some of them come with thorns, and others are measly imitations. All are swaying, dancing in the wind with their petals, their skirts and robes, their tight vests and accenting undergarments.

Look on me, they seem to say, laughing and flitting about the darkened thing he is, the shade and shadow that hunts them out, listening to their shrill laughter that dissolve to screams once he places his hands upon them, his lips twisting. He would rather knot their pretty necks, tie them up with the cords and ropes that decorate their frames, at least in a far more artful way. Decorate them so the lines bite into their skin, their imitations, bright jewels of red to well to the surface.

The phase soon passes, but the edge remains. The rumors are unchecked, but none are able to speak as if some cord has wound their tongues, their lungs, their hearts.

Blondes, blondes, always the blondes.

They laugh and joke, but in truth, they are afraid of the boy turned man. Afraid of his hands, the twist of his silvered tongue, and alluring gaze. No, the man is a viper, they hiss, and to sleep with him is to sleep within the coils of a snake that will as soon bite you than bed you.

Blondes, blondes, always the blondes.


End file.
